


Control

by Lizardtheory



Category: Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Fighting, Implied/Referenced Sex, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 18:33:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardtheory/pseuds/Lizardtheory
Summary: Prompt: Person B stubbornly trying to dress themselves after sustaining hindering injuries. Person A walks in to find B painfully struggling to pull on their shirt. Whether Your OTP is together or not, Person A decides to help.I went way off base with this, but I don't think that amount of fluff can really be accomplished between these two. Meh. Whatever.





	Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quickboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickboi/gifts).



> Birthday present for @Quickboi welcome to 18 have fun w/ it dude
> 
> Beta'd by @Valkyeet

They'd been through hell and a half. The whole of that bullshit team has. Together. That was the word of the day though, right? They made it through together, banged to hell, bloody, bruised, just above broken. “It's fine.” They brushed each other off, retreating into their personal corners of the Avengers tower. It was fine. They'd been through worse, that's just how it was.

Daken didn't have the same problems everyone else had. No broken bones, no real bleeding, no cuts or scratches or new scars. Everything he'd been through healed and reduced to the dull throb of a stress headache that would resolve itself in seconds. 

He watched his teammates, ‘teammates,’ scuttle off to lick their wounds with blatant contempt in his eyes. It shouldn't have gone that way. If only they'd listen to him. None of them had any fucking brain cells left over to think clearly, and he was more than capable of playing the voice in their ears, directing them, leading them, controlling them, control, control, control. 

He paced his room, agitated. His knack for empathy meant he kept getting flashes of his teammates anger and upset. From Karla, from Mac, that parasite inside him, from Ares, from Robert, from Noh-Varr, from Ben. Ben. That stupid archer, wannabe jackass hawkeye, dumbass pitcher. He was never meant to be a leader, and his stubbornness cost them their mission. Their pay. Their glory.

Daken grit his teeth, claw tips peeking under his skin and drawing little pinpricks of blood. Another flash of white hot anger, it was like Ben blamed him for his own incompetence. That wouldn't do. He'd have to show that little bitch who was really in charge. 

He was a man on a mission, and frankly that mission involved more than a few stab wounds and hopefully some broken adamantium bones. Snarling, he shoved Ben's door open so hard it smacked against the wall. “Lester.” 

The man in question looked up at him from where he was cataloguing his injuries, a glare to match Daken's burning in his eyes. “The fuck d'you want?” He spat. 

“I don't think I need a reason to come beat the shit out of you, darling.” 

“Beat the shit outta me? I'd like to see that.”

That was all the goading Daken needed. He shoved the door shut behind him and stormed closer as the other stood from his seat on the edge of his own bed. He didn't get to stand straight before Daken swung his fist into his face, sending him flat on the bed. 

They struggled against each other, Daken climbing over him as Bullseye clawed and punched and squirmed. Daken’s fingers latched onto his neck, squeezing dark marks into his skin until Ben managed a hard enough punch to the jaw that sent Daken lurching to the side.

The dynamics changed from there, Ben sitting on Daken's stomach and pinning his hands so those claws wouldn't find their way through him. The two men glared at each other, knowing full well they had two options; one of them killing the other, or… dealing with this. To say that is generous, neither of them really cared to talk anything out, fix problems between them, or handle their emotions. 

“You have nerve, princess.” 

“So do you, jackass.” Daken wrenched his arms from Ben's grasp, but made no move to start the fight again. “You don't fucking listen.”

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“Don't care.”

They were creatures of impulse. The fighting and scratching and biting and hurting almost always lead to more between them. Ben leaned over him and Daken got sick of that smirk on his face, kissing him to get rid of it. They seemed to fall into each other after that, kisses both desperate and soft somehow. 

They tugged at clothes, bit and kissed and pulled at each other. It was no different than usual, rough and angry but they listened to each other. They knew what the other wanted, they knew each others limits, and everything that drove them over the edge. 

///

Ben sat on the edge of the bed, Daken sprawled out behind him with a sheet drawn over his waist. They knew that what they did wasn't good for themselves, that their relationship was flawed, that they only did it to take out their frustrations, but they didn't seem to care.

Daken watched as Ben tried to pull a shirt over his head. He'd been hurt during their… team mishap earlier, and it showed in his movements. He'd raise his arms up, pause when the pain got bad enough, try again, wash, rinse, repeat. It was almost sad, but it was almost funny, too, watching him struggle like that. Daken sat up with a sigh and moved behind Ben, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Fuck off, brat.” Ben sniped.

Daken gave a warning growl and moved on, reaching up to help him get the shirt on with the least pain he could manage. He cared sometimes, or at least he acted like he did. It was hard to tell. Either way, he was doing his best to ease Ben's pain. 

A soft scent clouded Ben's senses, and he knew what Daken was doing. Damn prick. He could take care of himself. He didn't need some weird airborne pain killer for him to get dressed. He didn't need that fucking twink helping him. He was fine. He shrugged Daken off, adjusting his shirt to sit right and pulling himself to his feet. It was easier after that, but he wouldn't even consider attributing that to Daken and his pheromones. He was fine. 

Daken watched, waiting until Ben was dressed again to stop trying to help. He knew he'd go unappreciated, it wouldn't matter. He stretched lazily and got up himself, changing back into his clothes.

“This was fun, darling.” Daken teased on his way out, pausing by the doorway. “We should do it again sometime, no?”

Bullseye rolled his eyes. “Get fucked.”

“Yeah, that's the point.”

Next time, the mission wouldn't fail so spectacularly. They'd still end up in Bullseye’s room, fighting over the right to lead. They'd still squabble and bitch and argue and gripe. It's an endless cycle, those two, but neither of them cared to change it.


End file.
